Chapter Text
Harry is dead. The battle of Hogwarts is lost.
She stares into nothing, numb.
It can’t be. It can’t all be for nothing. It can’t be over.
She can’t bear it; the impotence, the powerlessness. Her insides feel torn, her vision blurs. Reality sways and slides. The voices and noises around her are overwhelmingly loud and distorted, as if under the ocean.
We should have done something differently. If I’d done something differently.
If we’d had more time…
Hermione’s mind clears. Her resolve sharpens.
I can stop this.
She runs towards the stables, ignoring the chaos and ruin around her. Her vision tunnels. None of this matters now. None of this is real.
The thestrals fought in the battle, attacking the giants. The stables are empty, but she finds an uninjured mare nosing around Hagrid’s cabin. Of course they are visible to her now: she has seen so much death. They are hideous. She reaches out her hand gently. Their skeletal flesh, so carcass-like. Death…just like her friends; they too would decay. They would look like this.
“Take me to the Ministry of Magic, please. Quickly.”
She clings on, her fingers white. The cold wind burns her face. She focuses on the sensation.
The atrium is deserted. Hermione wastes no time heading for level 9; she knows the way. Security guards have fled, wards are weakened. Nothing slows her pace. Behind the black door, she sprints along a dark corridor and into the circular chamber of doors. She opens all twelve with a slice of her wand and sheer force of will. She hears the ticking before she sees the clocks and the vast glass-domed bell jar.
She stares into the swirling, liquid vortex of light within. Perhaps she could simply dive in: leave her fortune to luck and fate. If only she knew what dreams would come. It gave her pause. It would not do to be lost in time, like tears in rain. She could not bear to stew in her own sour air.
She would not be passive. She would be the maker of memories.
There is a narrow passage between the many desks in the time room leading to a small door at the back. She strides through to the room full of glass-fronted cases. She picks the most intricate instrument from the most embellished cushion in the most richly decorated cabinet.
The inscription reads,
"I mark the hours, every one,
Nor have I yet outrun the Sun.
My use and value, unto you,
Are gauged by what you have to do".
There is no further hesitation.
She lets the turner spin and spin and spin.